


Fall From Grace

by california_112



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Kismet's Writing Challenge IX, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/california_112/pseuds/california_112
Summary: "If you're so interested, ask Biggles." Algy replied curtly, adding in a bitter undertone "It might be the last chance you get."Moving away from his friend, who quite clearly wanted to be alone, Bertie pondered Algy's addendum. What did he mean, the last chance he might get? He hadn't seen Algy that annoyed, or worried, for quite a while- what on earth was going on?-or-Biggles alone is employed in a mission which may mean life or death for two people. Can he pull it off?ABSOLUTELY 0% SPOILERS FOR ANYTHING
Kudos: 2





	1. Quite The Bombshell

"O, what can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering?"

"Oh, can it, Bertie," Algy snapped uncharacteristically, "I'm not in the mood."

Bertie's cheer faded abruptly, and he moved to join his friend as he leant against the worn bricks of Rawlham's farmhouse. Algy was smoking, and seemed almost nervous, frowning across the airfield without apparently seeing anything.

"What's the matter, old bean? Letter from home or something?"

"No. Well- it is a letter, but not from home. And it's not mine."

"How mysterious. Tell me, do I get any more clues, or is that all I have to go on?"

"If you're so interested, ask Biggles." Algy replied curtly, adding in a bitter undertone "It might be the last chance you get."

Moving away from his friend, who quite clearly wanted to be alone, Bertie pondered Algy's addendum. What did he mean, the last chance he might get? He hadn't seen Algy that annoyed, or worried, for quite a while- what on earth was going on?

After seeing Towser to his new kennel, Bertie made his way to the mess and shrugged off his jacket.

"What ho, chaps!" he greeted brightly, but was met by a group of uncharacteristically tense faces.

Spirits dampened once more, he took a seat near Tex. "What's going on? Towser and I were only gone for fifteen minutes."

"Post came in." Tex replied laconically, not looking at him.

"Oh, what fun. Anything special? Anything for me?"

"Probably." The answer was not directed at a particular question.

Bertie sighed, becoming exasperated. As it was clear that Tex wasn't going to shed any more light on the mystery, Bertie moved over to where Ginger was perched on a windowsill, hoping to be third time lucky. "What's going on, laddie?"

"The post came, and-" -he continued quickly, seeing Bertie's expression- "-Biggles handed out ours, not that there was much of it. There isn't anything for you, by the way."

"And, and? This suspense is too bally much, by Jove."

"If you'd let me finish," Ginger said coldly, "you'll find out." He cleared his throat before continuing. "The one at the bottom of the pile looked quite official, I thought, and Biggles had only been reading it for a minute before he called Algy into his office. Then, a couple of minutes later, Algy hurried through the mess and disappeared outside. If looks could kill, then-"

"Gentlemen."

Everyone fell silent, and turned to see Biggles framed in the doorway to his office, looking…odd. He took a step into the room and looked at the letter in his hand, apparently mulling something over, then spoke.

"Gentlemen, I've got an announcement to make, and I shan't beat about the bush. I'm being transferred."

There was a general intake of breath, and Ginger almost fell off the windowsill, only just catching himself. Biggles looked around them, frowning slightly. "Well? Have you all gone mute?"

"I'm just…stunned…" Henry said hesitantly, not seeming to notice his magazine slip from his fingers to the floor.

"It is quite the bombshell." Tex added, similarly shocked.

"Why?" Ferocity demanded. "What've we done wrong?"

Biggles chuckled. "You? It's clearly me who's gone off the rails somehow."

"What's that Air Commode got to do with this," Tug asked suspiciously, "the one who's always sending us on suicide missions. Surely he can't just dismiss you like this, it's not-"

"The orders are direct from the Air Ministry, Mr Carrington." Biggles cut in. "Even higher than Air _Commodore_ Raymond." Tug reddened slightly, but Biggles continued. "Who, by the way, has been replaced as well. You all may look forward to a future with the minimum possible suicide missions."

Bertie, just as much at a loss as the rest of them, spoke up from the back. "Who're they sending instead, old warrior? Anyone we know?"

"The replacement seems to be an Italian- naturalised, of course." Biggles said, apparently glad for a distraction, and consulted the letter before attempting pronunciation. "Flight Lieutenant Edr- Adi- Adriani."

"Do you think that's anything like the jolly old roman- Emperor Hadrian?"

"I doubt they're related." Biggles returned dryly.

"Wait a minute," Angus cut in, "only a Flight Lieutenant?"

Biggles shrugged. "He's a stop-gap, I guess, they must be sending someone with more experience."

"Why can't you stay until then?" Ginger asked, his entire demeanour confused and saddened.

"This says that I'm to be in the depot tomorrow morning," Biggles sighed, "looks like tonight will be our last supper, as it were."

In the silence that followed, he suddenly looked past Ginger to the door, and realised that Algy had snuck in. His expression faltered, but his friend simply stubbed out his cigarette. "It'll be the best we've ever had." he said huskily, then stalked to the kitchens, mind already made up to pull out all the stops for his best and oldest friend.

* * *

At lunchtime, the pilots of 666 were still reeling from the morning's announcement, though were more vocal. The one sortie they had been engaged in so far had been mostly uneventful, but it had reminded them of the spirit the group shared, and would always share. Biggles' departure would dampen it, no question, but it likely wouldn't be for long. Tug at least was quite vocally planning to fight the transfer tooth and nail- and fists, if necessary. None of them could picture the squadron working quite so well with conventional leadership.

Whilst they were eating, a band of rain moved in, hammering on the farmhouse roof with unusual ferocity. As they were grounded, a series of rowdy card games occupied the airmen for the afternoon, which saw far less opposition from the CO than normal, though Ginger was unusually quiet. In truth, although Biggles had been outwardly calm that morning, that was only shock; now the news had sunk in, he felt truly melancholy. Packing up his desk and bedroom were tasks that he completed with a grim expression, and no joy. He didn't even know where he was being sent, just to a depot south of London that could mean anything.

Algy came upstairs just as Biggles was laying out his uniform for the next morning, and rubbed his hands as he sat down. Neither of them said anything for a minute.

"That smells nice," Biggles said casually, referring to the warm, homely scent wafting upstairs, "what have you set the cooks to?"

"Some purloined roast beef with all the trimmings." Algy said, then grinned. "Well, as many trimmings as I could get my hands on."

Biggles raised his eyebrows. "Purloined?"

"The Crawley depot will never miss it."

"Crawley- that's where I'm being sent!" Biggles said with feigned anger, sitting on his bed. "You've probably just stolen my dinner for tomorrow."

They shared a chuckle before the reality seeped in again. A cheer from the card-players broke the silence.

"You won't be there for long, Biggles, we'll get you back." Algy vowed. "I don't care if Raymond throws the book at me, I'll get you back." There was fire in his expression.

"Not Raymond, old boy, whoever his replacement is." Biggles reminded. "It seems they're doing a proper changing of the guard."

"Well I wouldn't mind seeing him back as well!" Algy said. "Maybe I'll let Tug loose in Group HQ, that should change their minds-"

"Hey, slow down Algy," Biggles cut in, "you don't want to get thrown out of the service."

Algy laughed bitterly. "Don't I? Where's the reason to stay."

"Ginger. Bertie, Angus- this squadron needs people it can trust."

"Why wasn't I promoted to replace you? I'm leader of A flight, I-"

"Don't bother trying to fathom the Air Ministry, Algy, it'll drive you crazy."

A sour silence followed, but Algy couldn't stay mad for very long. At the sound of the dinner bell, he stood up. "Feel free to join us," he joked, "you wouldn't want to miss your own farewell party."

"I'll be right down." Biggles assured, grinning.

As the door closed behind his friend, Biggles placed his battered old suitcase next to the door, and looked around the room. One more night, that was all he had- one more night with the men who had become almost like family. As hard as they would fight, he was under no illusion that the Air Ministry would listen, an order was an order and that was that. If they'd even given the slightest hint of his next move, what he might be destined for…but no, the Crawley depot was all he knew. Turning off the light, he made his way downstairs and joined his final meal with his mess-mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun times fun times
> 
> An entry for Kismet's writing challenge which just about hit the deadline...hope it's enjoyed!


	2. The Only Logical Conclusion

By the time Biggles went downstairs the next morning, the dawn patrol had returned, and various half-full dishes of breakfast littered the dining table. He helped himself to a little bit of everything, and started to nibble, but was suddenly not very hungry.

"Long journey?"

He looked up to see Ginger taking the seat next to him, still bleary-eyed and half-dressed from sleep. Biggles was surprised, and slightly relieved- the lad hadn't said a word to him since the announcement yesterday, but he hadn't given him much of a chance.

"Only to Crawley, but I've no idea where I'm going after that." Biggles replied. "I suppose I'll find out when I get there."

They lapsed into silence, broken only by the crunching of toast and whistling of wind.

"You'll give us an address, when you finally get…there," Ginger said suddenly, "we- I'd like to keep in touch."

"If I'm allowed, then of course!" Biggles allowed, "But if it's secret, then…"

"Well, if it's a secret." The lad returned to his scrambled eggs.

Just as the plates were being cleared away, there was the sound of a car pulling up outside, and a person getting out. A minute later, a young RAF driver appeared in the mess.

"Squadron Leader Digglesworth?"

"Bigglesworth." the named corrected coldly, standing up. "Who might you be?"

"Sergeant Laker, sir- sorry for the mistake. I'm from the depot at Crawley, they sent a car for you."

Biggles was silent, as was the rest of the mess, but eventually he stood aside and pushed his chair in.

"Goodbye, chaps." he said quietly, but loud enough that everyone heard the emotion in his voice.

"I'll see you out." Algy said, to break the tension, and Ginger excused himself as well.

The three of them followed the driver to the front door of the farmhouse, where Biggles' suitcase and boxes were waiting, then watched as the driver helped him settle them in the boot. Not wanting to make a scene, Biggles opened the car door then turned, looking at his two dearest friends. Algy seemed stoic and annoyed at the circumstances of their farewell, whilst Ginger was clearly making something of an effort to hold himself together. Biggles waved to both of them.

The two of them returning the gesture, arranged in the porch of the slightly tumbledown English farmhouse, were the last impression that Biggles had of Rawlham and 666 squadron before the driver turned a corner, and all were hidden from view.

* * *

The two hour drive to the Crawley depot seemed to take so long that Biggles was surprised it wasn't midday when he arrived. He spent the journey staring out the window, and thinking about those he had left behind. However, as soon as he stepped out of the car, these thoughts were swept away suddenly: a familiar figure was waiting to meet him, leaning against one of the columns which fronted the main house.

"Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, it's good to see you again!" David Raymond detached himself and walked over, a strained smile on his face.

"Master Raymond, I can say the same!" Biggles returned, and they shook hands.

"It's Squadron Leader now, like you," David said, sounding pleased, though this faded as he continued, "but that's not why you're here."

Biggles gave him a sideways glance as he picked up his suitcase. "You…know about my transfer?"

"I organized it," David explained airily, "I need someone who my father could trust."

They stopped dead, half way up the main steps. "'Could'? What's happened to the Air Commodore?"

David fidgeted with his tunic, not looking at Biggles. Eventually, after taking a deep breath, he spoke in one long rush.

"He's missing believed dead after a mission that went wrong in occupied France."

" _Believed_ dead?" Biggles asked, incredulous, "Can't they _know_?"

The Squadron Leader picked up the new arrival's suitcase, hurrying to the top of the stairs. "Can anything be known for certain in intelligence? It's the only logical conclusion that my Wing Commander can come to."

"Your Wing Commander. Not you."

"I don't believe it." David looked at Biggles defiantly. "I'm still getting over the fact that he was in France in the first place, and how…though, that much is confirmed. Flying Officer Le Loire saw him off himself two nights ago from Tangmere, I've spoken to him."

Biggles sighed as they reached the top of the stairs, placing his boxes of belongings on the ground. "David, why exactly am I here?"

"My father isn't dead!"

"There was no real need to transfer me here just for that, I could have simply taken some time off." Biggles pointed out, continuing "Though from what little you've told me, I'm inclined to agree with you."

David started. "You are?"

"Two days is a very short period of time for someone to be declared dead in."

"They didn't 'declare'." David said, sounding disgusted. "They only 'believe'."

"Who believes?" Biggles asked.

"Wing Commander Hare."

"Well, I'll speak to him first." Biggles took a step then turned back. "David, do you- did you really have the authority to bring me here?"

The Squadron Leader shuffled his feet. "Technically yes, but Wing Commander Hare did tell me not to. Ordered me not to, actually."

"You're going _against orders?_ "

David spread his arms, looking uncharacteristically desperate. "I know my father isn't dead- you're the only one I know who can prove it!"

* * *

Wing Commander Hare's office was little more than a cupboard, with the only item of interest being a small poster of Vera Lynn, and it's dinginess suited the man who occupied it. A tall, sickly-looking fellow, he seemed to be squeezed awkwardly behind his desk as he gave Biggles a stormy look, tapping his pencil in an almost frenzied manner.

" _Squadron Leader_ Raymond has gone too far this time." He said eventually. "Transferring an operational officer just to investigate the death of a family member!"

"Not just any family member, sir," Biggles pointed out politely, "the Air Commodore is his father. And it's not unlikely that he's alive."

"That's not an excuse!" Hare sat up straight. "This is an intelligence matter, not a family reunion!"

The senior officer smouldered in silence for a moment, flicking his pencil between his fingers. Biggles stood and waited, watching his expression. Eventually, Hare gave in.

"Well, I can't say I don't know your record," he started, "and I doubt Raymond is going to get off my back about the matter until there's a decisive answer. And as you've been transferred here…you may as well investigate. His _father_ the Air Commodore is my direct superior, and I know he's trusted you for years, so I think I can trust you now."

"Thank you, sir." Biggles saluted, and was about to leave when the Wing Commander continued.

"I'll be glad to help, if you need anything," he volunteered with a grimace, "we both know that the Air Commodore was less than strict regarding paperwork, and this new man…" He shuddered, putting a stack of forms to one side.

"Absolutely, sir.

David was waiting in the corridor, and Biggles gave him a run-down of the conversation. The young man was happy that Hare was willing to assist, but anxious that it was something to be done sooner rather than later- he suggested that very night.

"Hold on, David," Biggles counselled, as they made their way to the mess for lunch, "before I start making plans, I don't know anything about the Air Commodore's mission. I don't know much about any part of this."

"Let's get a private room," the Squadron Leader replied, "and I'll tell you all about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyones sad ;-;


	3. No Walk In The Park

As soon as lunch was served, David began his explanation.

"About a week ago, a message arrived from one of our agents that they had managed to get one of the Nazi's top scientists to come over to our side, but when he arrived at their headquarters, he got cold feet. The chap's name is Professor Sturnwitsz, by the way, a Pole." David gestured with his fork. "The Professor got the thought into his head that our underground people were Nazis in disguise, testing his loyalty, and refused to say anything until they produced irrefutable evidence that they were on the side of the allies. This was communicated to us, and we looked him up- turns out that Sturnwitsz's family got over here in '31, a sons in his twenties and a wife. The son happens to be in the RAF, and there was an idea to send the son over there, but that was shot down almost immediately."

"Why?" Biggles asked rather inelegantly, through a mouthful of pheasant.

"He's on the intelligence staff, you might know of him- Group Captain Sturn."

Biggles started. "Isn't he your father's right-hand man?"

"Yes. Now, he did want to go and convince his father, and it was a fairly good plan, but Sturn can't fly, and the operation needed it to be a single pilot going over in a two-seater, because of the landing ground that the underground has to use. So, the person flying would have to be the person doing the convincing, and as the son and the wife were out, that only left one person."

"Air Commodore Raymond? How?"

"As I said, Professor Sturnwitsz's family came here in '31. When Sturn went into the RAF, we made friends in training, and mostly advanced together. My parents and his met many times."

" _Mostly_ advanced together," Biggles picked up on dryly, "is there a reason why you aren't a Group Captain as well?"

"I'd rather not be behind a desk…and, there are a few things that have slowed me down." David grinned.

They pushed their emptied plates away, and Biggles summarized. "So, the Air Commodore flew over to France to convince Professor Sturnwitsz that he hadn't been trapped, and then what?"

"We didn't hear anything at any of the allotted times. A reconnaissance spitfire photographed a burnt-out Lysander on the landing ground, and the underground's building razed to the ground. That's enough proof for people like Hare to declare all those concerned dead."

Biggles pondered. "It's pretty damning evidence."

"But there's one thing that doesn't add up- although my father officially went over in a Lysander, Flying Officer Le Loire told me that on the night, it wouldn't start. That Lysander never left the ground."

"So what did he go in?" Biggles asked.

"A captured Henschel 123, was the only other thing suitable." David replied.

"And was one of those picked up by reconnaissance?"

"Yes, in a field half a mile away to the west. It had made a bit of bad landing, but the fuselage was intact, and there was no sign of fire."

With a a sigh, Biggles saw what was coming. Really, David Raymond was just like his father. "You want me to fly over there and see what happened."

"Unless you have a better plan…"

"I'd like to consider it, look at the technical side." Biggles said, taking out a cigarette. "I don't want to rush into a situation that apparently went sour."

"Yes, of course. Take all the time you need." David agreed, though it was clear that he was very impatient. "If there's anything else you need to know, I'll be in my office, it's not too hard to find."

"Thank you." Biggles stood up. "I do have one question."

David looked up. "Yes?"

"Why haven't you just told Hare about the Henschel and explained everything how it is?"

"Apparently the Henschel wasn't meant to be there," David explained, slightly embarrassed, "it's not officially been recorded as being at Tangmere. Le Loire said something about it being the favourite trophy of an Air Marshal, and if he finds out it was destroyed in action out of the south of England, then…"

Biggles chuckled. "Ah. I see."

They parted outside the mess, David to his office and Biggles to his billet. The room was small but perfectly formed, a single bed with sink and wardrobe, as well as a window overlooking a collection of supply sheds and other wooden huts that made up the Crawley depot, and he leant on the window frame, thinking. It didn't sound like anything too difficult, compared to Air Commodore Raymond's past asks, but it could get complicated- and flying into occupied France was no walk in the park.

Overall, though, he was inclined to do it. He'd known both of the Raymonds- all the family- for quite some time, and to abandon the Air Commodore when all was not lost felt like a betrayal. And he was beginning to understand why David had had him transferred- the lad had been quite desperate, and was not as well versed as his father in intelligence matters. He would have to rescue the Air Commodore even if it was so that he could teach David a thing or two about policy.

* * *

A few hours after their lunchtime meeting, Biggles sought out David Raymond again, eventually finding his office. It was only marginally different to Wing Commander Hare's, with a few more things on the walls, as well as a chair for visitors. Evidently, David was slightly more popular than Hare.

"Take a seat," the Squadron Leader invited, "what have you decided?"

"I'll go tonight." Biggles started, then smiled at the look of intense relief on David's face. "There are a few things I'd like, though. I think that between you and Hare, they wouldn't be too hard to arrange."

David grabbed a notepad. "I'll make a list."

"If Hare could find an aircraft for me, a Lysander or something, I'd like to fly out of Tangmere. That way I'll be following the exact route that your father took, should it make any difference. Also, if you could give me all the details you know, as well as introduce me to Flying Officer Le Loire, that would be very helpful."

"I'll go to Hare right away." David said, standing up. "I'm sure he'll want to get this business cleared us as soon as possible. Whilst I'm gone, these are my father's notes- they were sent to me when they believed he had been killed."

Whilst David was gone, Biggles leafed through the thin folder of papers. It mostly consisted of course plots, which was very useful, and a few jotted notes about Professor Sturnwitsz. Fifteen minutes later, David returned, and Biggles knew that the meeting had gone well.

"Hare arranged it all with Tangmere," he announced, "they can do everything you asked for. You fly tonight."

* * *

Biggles arrived at RAF Tangmere just before dinner, and had another working meal, this time with Flying Officer Le Loire. David had phoned ahead and arranged the meeting with the Frenchman, who was now telling Biggles exactly what Air Commodore Raymond had told him before take off. Le Loire knew more than he probably should have because he had been assigned to the Air Commodore as part of the special mission, and had helped the him find a replacement for the faulty Lysander. That had required Raymond explaining a little of the circumstances, and it was these that were relayed to Biggles over dinner.

As darkness fell, Le Loire led Biggles to the hangar on the other side of the airfield where the Lysander was housed.

"I have checked her over since that night," he said, as the hangar lights flickered on, "the problem was the starter motor. I have had him fixed."

"Thank you." Biggles said, walking around the aircraft. "Everything else was in order?"

"Yes."

Biggles climbed up awkwardly and looked into the cockpit, threatening to fall from his precarious perch at any second. "She seems normal enough." He got back down. "My only worry is how to get three people in this thing."

"The cockpit is surprisingly roomy, if nobody has to move," Le Loire replied, "they have been used to take stretchers. And, for such a short journey, there should not be too much discomfort."

"I hope the Air Commodore and the Professor share your feeling." Biggles replied, then thanked the Flying Officer and went to get ready.

With the moon just casting enough light to see by, the Lysander swept into the air, and Biggles fell into Air Commodore Raymond's plotted course to the underground's field. According to the map, it was just north of Varouville, and he shouldn't have any difficulty finding it- the hulk of the Lysander from a previous attempt would be the most obvious marker. Biggles' plan was to climb for as much height as he could get over the channel, then glide over the site of the underground headquarters, now burnt away. If there were no signs of life, hard as they would be to spot, he would head to the area where the Henschel 123 had been crashed, and land nearby. If he himself was caught in a trap, as the other two aircraft must have been…he would have to be particularly careful.

The Lysander's glide ratio was not ideal, but it did the job as far as Biggles was concerned. The angle he flew at was rather precarious, having one wing down to look for signals whilst also keeping the nose down a little to ward off a stall, but his years of experienced allowed him to put the constant nursing of slacker-than-normal controls to the back of his mind. With nothing happening on the ground after a few minutes of watching, he headed off to the secondary target before he lost too much height.

As he approached, he began to feel wary- this was going far too easily. As hedges fell away, the wreck of the Henschel appeared, floodlit by the rising moon, and his eyes frantically scanned the surrounding fields for any signs of traps. Thinking that the next one over looked as good as any, Biggles started to gain the vital landing speed, losing height quickly.

When he caught a glint of moonlight on metal out the corner of his eye, it was almost too late to do anything, but knowing that the Lysander was the only way out for three people, he had to save it. Pulling up quickly, he gained a little height on the zoom then began to stall, but put the stick forward just in time to recover. He imagined that he heard the wheels scrape on the hedge between the two fields, then flared just in time to land. Breaking, he realised he hadn't checked this field for traps, and if there were any…

The Lysander trundled to a halt just a few yards from the hedge, breaking just as effective as ever. As the propellor slowed down, Biggles noticed a faint _swshing_ sound in time with the blades, and hurrying outside saw exactly how lucky he had been- an inch further forwards, and the prop would have hit a thin metal wire that was strung across the field. For a moment, he felt a little faint.

His situation was less than ideal if a quick take off was required, but the field was large and the night only a few hours old. Returning to the hedge, he forced a gap and climbed through, almost losing the uniform-covering raincoat that Le Loire had lent him from the kit store. Approaching the Henschel, he was greatly relieved to find it unguarded, and began his examination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one required Flying Knowledge


	4. A Risky Stunt

It seemed that the Air Commodore had not been injured in the crash, as there was no blood in the cockpit, and no signs of a forced exit. The actual event couldn't have been too bad, as the undercarriage had been taken off quite neatly, leading the biplane to skit to a halt a few yards on. Leaning on the bottom wing, the attitude wasn't particularly different from normal, and the aircraft would likely have still been serviceable- if it had any wheels.

Knowing that the Henschel pilot must have gone to the underground headquarters, Biggles started his journey east. He didn’t really expect to find anything there, but it was the best starting place he could think of, and he wanted to find his the Air Commodore and the Professor as quickly as possible. He didn't have a choice but to walk on the roads, and he was thankful that they were deserted. His only option to escape the view of any oncoming traffic was to jump into the ditch that ran alongside, and as this stank of damp, rotting vegetation, he wasn't going to leap in there lightly.

As soon as the silhouette of the remaining brick portions of the headquarters were silhouetted distinctly, Biggles slowed his pace. He didn't want to walk into a trap, and so approached in near-silence, listening for any signs of life. Crouching behind a hedge, his caution paid off- two voices were conversing in low tones.

" _Où est-il?_ "

" _Il devrait revenir bientôt…_ "

 _"_ _Il aurait dû être de retour il y a des heures._ "

The first voice spoke French with a strong accent, though Biggles could not have said from where, and the second sounded far more native. One of their men was missing, and should have been back hours ago. Gambling that they were members of the underground, based mostly on where they were hiding, he stepped into the open, hands visible.

"Is this a family bakery?" he asked, this being the code that David Raymond had informed him was to be used.

There was a deafening silence, then the click of a gun being primed. "Yes, and I am the owner." a voice from the shadows replied in a rough French accent.

"Then I will have one baguette." As soon as the code was completed, Biggles showed what he could of his uniform in the moonlight. "I'm a friend of Air Commodore Raymond. Where is Professor Sturnwitsz?"

"I am he." A figure stepped into the light, looking dishevelled and tired.

He was followed by a man in a long overcoat, who was holding a rifle in a position that made it clear it was not just for show. The second man looked at Biggles suspiciously, but the completed code and Biggles' uniform seemed to win over the internal turmoil.

"Where is the Air Commodore?" Biggles asked, searching the shadows for a third person.

"He left to try and find an aircraft," the Professor returned, "and he said he'd be back hours ago."

Biggles was surprised. "Find an aircraft? Where?"

"There is a Luftwaffe airfield the other side of Hacouville, less than a mile from here." It was the gun-wielding underground member who spoke, pointing back the way Biggles had come. "He had the idea of stealing one of their aircraft to take himself and the professor back to England." He shook his head. "He is mad."

In his head, Biggles agreed. Splitting from his party for such a risky stunt- it was foolhardy bordering on suicidal. Thinking quickly, he formed a plan, and though it too had its risks, he was sure that it had a good chance of success.

"The airfield is not too far, you say." He directed at the underground man.

"Yes, less than a mile." He suddenly stuck his hand out to Biggles. "Mathieu."

"Biggles." They shook, then the planning continued. "I flew here in a Lysander, it's parked about half a mile away- it sounds like it's half way between here and this Luftwaffe airfield. If we all go to where my Lysander is, I'll go to the airfield with Mathieu to find the Air Commodore. Professor, you would stay with the Lysander and do a quick job for me."

"But I know nothing about aircraft!" Sturnwitsz protested.

"The problem is that the field is wired," Biggles explained, "I need you to cut them and pull them to the side so we can take off again."

"That, I can do." The professor replied, sounding relieved.

Mathieu nodded his approval, but added "What if the Air Commodore comes back to this house, and finds nothing?"

"That's something I'd forgotten," Biggles admitted, "Mathieu, why don't you stay here? I'm sure I can go to the airfield alone."

"As you wish."

"When we get away, I'll blip my engine over this place to let you know we've gone."

With that promise, Biggles and the Professor started away from the burnt out house, and after a short waved goodbye, disappeared onto the road. With the moon already past its zenith, time was of the essence if everyone was to get back to England safe and sound.

* * *

The route back to the Lysander was easy going, but skirting the edge of the wire-trapped field was going to be a sight harder. This was something that Biggles realised as the pair arrived at their first destination, and Biggles showed the professor what needed doing.

"How many wires are there?" he asked, and Biggles shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know, but they're probably evenly spaced. Do as many as you can, I'd like the whole field clear for take-off." He passed the professor his pocket knife. "I'll be back soon." With that, he faded into the darkness.

As he had suspected, the edge of the field was overgrown by grass and hedge, and as he pushed his way through he tried to put the thought of the smooth, clear road out of his mind. It was only half a mile, maybe less, and at least he would be able to find his way back by all the broken branches and trampled grass. Even so, it felt like hours before he finally saw the lights of the airfield ahead, and switched to a more sneaky approach.

The first thing he notes, with some annoyance, was that he had arrived almost directly in front of the main gate- he had been parallel to the road all along. This meant that there was a pair of guards, though this was not completely unwelcome- by listening to their conversation, he tried to gage what was happening on the airfield, and maybe pick up some clues as to where the Air Commodore might have gone.

It seemed that the Air Commodore had not gone very far. The two sentries were having an excited discussion about a senior British officer who had been discovered trying to cut through the fence just a short distance from there, and was now being held in the guardroom. One of them thought him an escaped POW, and the other suspected he was a spy. But why would a spy break into an airfield? Grimly, Biggles knew the answer to that. What he didn't know was how he was going to break Air Commodore Raymond out.

An answer suddenly appeared in the form of a small truck, which pulled up at the gates and announced that it was there to collect the prisoner. The guards let it through quickly, then continued gossiping, and Biggles formed a plan. It was now obvious what he had to do- stop the truck and free the prisoner. The how was still in question.

After a few minutes of hard thought, he had a plan: a somewhat improvised one, but a plan nevertheless. Backtracking for a few minutes, he forced his way onto the road and then foraged around for a while, gathering sticks, leaves, and other pieces of debris. These he arranged inside his raincoat in the middle of the road, now very aware that his uniform was plain for anyone to see, and stood back to admire his handiwork. It really did look as though someone was lying there, and hopefully that was the impression the driver would get. Nervous that this was his only way of saving the Air Commodore, Biggles retreated to the hedgerow to wait.

Thankfully, the truck appeared a few minutes later, hurtling through the night with headlights dimmed. Biggles held his breath as it got closer, but as soon as the light touched some of the brown raincoat there was a squeal of brakes, and the truck ground to a halt. With a curse of surprise, the driver jumped down, but moved towards the 'body' as slow as a slug, apparently expecting a trap. He was so focused that he completely missed the wraith emerging from the shadows, sneaking up behind him and whacking him in the head, and he crumpled onto the sticks and leaves with a series of soft crunches. Biggles called out.

"Air Commodore Raymond?"

"Bigglesworth!" the familiar voice replied from the back of the truck. "Get me out of here, I'm tied up!"

Hurrying round, Biggles let down the flap and climbed in. The Air Commodore was thankfully without guard, but his hands and feet were bound securely. These were undone in a moment, and Biggles helped him to his feet.

"You're just about the last person I expected to see," he greeted thankfully, "how on earth did you come to be here?"

"I'll explain later," Biggles said tersely, "that driver could come round any minute. We'll use these to tie him up, then take this truck back to the Professor. He's waiting for me with my Lysander."

"The professor? A Lysander?" The Air Commodore chuckled. "Everything's worked out. I should have known."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it all works out in the end


	5. An Interesting Night

Biggles was thankful that there wasn't any more walking, and would have found the drive peaceful if it weren't for the situation. As they hurried through the darkness, all of the lead-up was explained to Air Commodore Raymond, who wasn't sure whether to be happy or annoyed with his son. Just as Biggles finished up, they arrived at where Biggles judged the Lysander's field to be, and they got out. Abandoning the truck, they pushed through the hedge and saw the silhouette of the Lysander in the distance, a figure waiting next to it.

"That's the professor," Biggles explained, "he was cutting the wires in the field. Everything should be ready for a quick take-off."

Professor Sturnwitsz was overjoyed to see the Air Commodore again, but there was no time to tell of the rescue. Squeezing into the two-seater, the canopy just about closed, and all were very glad that there was only a short distance to travel. Biggles was vaguely worried that the aircraft might handle differently, but as it had been designed to take bomb loads, he did not foresee too much of a problem.

After hours of being as quiet as possible, the bellow of the Bristol Mercury engine was deafening. Trusting that the Professor had done his job with the wires properly, Biggles lost no time in revving up, then released the brakes and thundered into the air with a short field take-off. Curling around steeply, he decided to stay low until they were over the channel, then begin to climb. Hopefully, the remainder of the mission would be relatively simple, but he kept his eyes peeled just in case.

It was lucky that he did, for no sooner had he crossed the French coast than there was a flash of red in his peripheral vision, and the staccato chatter of a machine gun told him that an enemy was close by. Too low for most evasive manoeuvres, Biggles' only option was to climb, and he turned at the same time, trying to gain as much height as possible. In this he found not protection but peril, as five more Messerschmitts descended on the helpless craft. The attackers held a clear advantage, and the unmistakable sound of bullets ripping through wood seemed to come from all around. The Lysander was in dire straits, and they weren't even half way home. With the added and oddly distributed weight, as well as the aircraft's intrinsic nature, evading the slick fighters was going to take a small miracle.

What actually happened was a large miracle- like a bolt from the black, ten Spitfires suddenly descended on the scene. Even though they were outnumbered, the Messerschmitts still put up a good fight, but the arrival provided the opportunity that the Lysander needed, and it dove away towards the English coast. Leaving the dogfight far behind, Biggles made for Tangmere with all speed, wanting to get his passengers on the ground as quickly as possible. Thankfully, they were not intercepted again, the only event being a lone spitfire pulling alongside and giving the slower aircraft a long hard stare, before breaking away again and disappearing into the night.

The ground crew at Tangmere were unsurprised to see the Lysander in such a battered condition, and Biggles supposed that they had dealt with such situations many times before. The airman who came to help prize the two passengers out of the back seat seemed more surprised that they were both alive and unhurt, and escorted them and Biggles to the main building whilst the Lysander was pulled into the hangar for repairs. Falling into beds, all three were asleep in minutes, still fully clothed atop unopened sheets.

* * *

Biggles, Professor Sturnwitsz, and Air Commodore Raymond took a tender to the Crawley Depot the next morning after a not particularly bright and early start. The events of the previous night and the adventure in France before Biggles arrived had been recorded in a number of reports, which were now on the way to the Air Ministry. As the business was cleared up, it was expected that both Biggles and the Air Commodore would be returned to their previous posts after their ostensible fall from grace, and Professor Sturnwitsz was to be interrogated and then employed alongside the other allied scientists.

The Raymond reunion that occurred on the steps of the Crawley depot was touching, and a similar meeting happened between the Professor, his son, and his wife. Biggles almost felt left out, until another figure appeared, sauntering down to meet him.

"So there you are!"

Algy shook his friend's hand firmly, and a grin grew on Biggles' face. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, what else?" Algy said, clapping him on the shoulder, "I did say that I wasn't going to abandon you. When I got here, a Wing Commander Hare told me you were in France, of all places!"

"I did have quite an interesting night." Biggles admitted, as they headed back inside. "What did you get up to whilst I was away?"

Algy sighed a long-suffering sigh. "I would say not much, but that Flight Lieutenant Adriani had some very strange ideas of what 'usual squadron activity' was like." A shadow of disgust flitted across his face. "None of us wanted to do it, but he had us on date of rank!"

"Do what?" Biggles enquired, interested.

"Night flying. Night flying! We're not meant to do that as 'usual squadron activity'! He seemed to think that we should be in the air at all hours of the day and night, shooting down everything we saw. The only good that came of it was that we helped something small coming back from France, a Lysander I think, and- why are you laughing?"

Biggles was, in fact, chuckling quietly as he listened to his friend's tirade. "Oh, nothing…it's good to be back."

Before Algy could reply, they entered the mess, and were immediately hailed by a waiter, who showed them to one of the private rooms. Wing Commander Hare waited at the head of the table, and shortly after Biggles and Algy sat down, the David and Air Commodore Raymond arrived, completing the party.

"Professor Sturnwitsz has been whisked off to London," the Air Commodore opened, "his family have gone with him, but I can expect Group Captain Sturn to return to the office within a few days."

Hare smiled. "Thank you. I'm glad you're back, sir."

"I'm glad to be back," Air Commodore Raymond continued, "and I've got Bigglesworth to thank for it."

"And I've got your son to thank for involving me." Biggles said good-naturedly. "If David hadn't transferred me here, then you might be rotting in a German prison."

"You underestimate my ability to escape, Bigglesworth." the Air Commodore said, a twinkle in his eye. "And David, we must have a talk about that…"

David squirmed slightly under his father's gaze. "Yes, sir."

"Can Biggles come back to 666?" Algy asked bluntly, looking around the collection of senior officers.

"As soon as you want him." Hare said. "I guessed you'd ask for that, so I dealt with it whilst you were away."

"Well, maybe not all that soon…" Biggles teased.

He received a light shoulder punch from Algy, who continued "I can take him back with me today."

"That’s fine by me."

The meeting adjourned, and after some final handshakes and thanks, the various parties departed. Algy had bought a tender, though admitted that he was not under orders, and Biggles sat in the passenger seat. As they started back to Rawlham, he did have one last question.

"So, tell me about this Lysander you encountered…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyones safe and sound!
> 
> Thanks for reading! This was very rushed, so sorry for any errors, but at least the plot should be mildly cohesive :')


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